Suckerpunched
by CortessaBlatt
Summary: A sparring match gone wrong. AttonMical slash. Oneshot.


**Suckerpunched**

_You may shoot me now. DX Atton/Mical slash. Oneshot._

**Rated PG13 **– The general that comes with the territory

**Disclaimer: **I don't. Deserve. To live.

**Suckerpunched**

Atton could not say he was very pleased with his current position. The story began with their leader, the Jedi exile, Relina Nairda. The crew of their ship, the Ebon Hawk, was expanding rapidly, at an alarmingly fast rate, actually. Already they had picked up scratch on a dozen people. There was Relina herself, then her mentor, Kreia. Then there was Atton, who, admittedly, couldn't leave no matter how much he wanted to. After that, there was Bao-Dur, who had apparently served Relina in the war, and his Remote. That made five already. Then there was a tag-along Handmaiden from Atris's ice academy, who had jumped aboard without permission, followed in a similar fashion soon after by a Miraluka named Visas. That, now, made seven. After that, they picked up a shy, soft-spoken man named Mical from the Jedi academy on Dantooine. Eight. They headed to Nar Shaddaa, incidentally picking up Mira, a droid called G0-T0, and a scoundrel named Sloegen. Altogether, that was eleven. Lastly, there were the two droids that had come with the ship, HK-47 and T3-M4. That made thirteen.

Thirteen inhabitants on this little freighter.

It was cramped. That was the first thing that came into Atton's mind. Kreia agreed with him, constantly griping about the lack of room. Relina never listened to her, but the rest of her crew paid for it through the nose.

Thank the gods, Atton thought lazily, that he had the cockpit. That was, thank the gods that he had the cockpit when he _wasn't _being dragged out of the ship on some insane mission or another. They had crash-landed on Onderon's moon, Dxun, where, he thought dryly, they would pick up another half-dozen passengers and bring their total to nineteen. Relina, it seemed, had a natural talent of attracting people and sticking to them, like a goddamn human magnet…

A human slash droid slash Iridonian slash Miraluka slash Echani slash freaky old woman magnet…

Atton, sitting in his cockpit with his feet propped up on the consol. He knew Relina would find him and reprimand him for it, but now the sweltering heat of summer was making him sleepy and incoherent.

Oh, yes. They had managed to crash land on a Force-forsaken moon during its summer season.

Atton cursed his luck. He hated his life with a fiery passion at the moment, but it was better than nothing. He had been craving a cigarra badly, but he didn't light one, because it would just be too hot. Letting out an audible sigh of irritation, he leaned back in his seat and groaned, stripping off his jacket, and his boots, and his gloves… and everything else that might heat him up too much. In the end, he was left in his pants (which he had been tempted to take off), and his sleeveless brown undershirt. Feeling slightly exposed, Atton felt the urge to stretch, to get used to his new space. So he got up, leaving the consol buzzing, and began sparring with his shadow.

Relina and half of the crew were wandering around on Dxun's surface. Only Visas, G0-T0, T3-M4, Mical, and Atton remained. Atton wondered grudgingly why Relina had left him with such a somber, wordless crew. He would have much more enjoyed sticking around with Mira and Sloe and Bao-Dur, who at least had some color. But, no, she had to leave him with these… these… well, Atton could think up many insults.

There was a soft knock on the door. Atton pointedly ignored the noise – everyone knew he never allowed anyone to disturb him here, except for those who could co-pilot and Relina herself.

But the person didn't go away. The knocking persisted, getting braver every minute, and then suddenly it faltered, as if the person on the other side was suddenly uncertain. Finally, a quiet voice came through. "Atton?"

Atton stopped sparring. He pushed his hair out of his face, wiping sweat from his brow, and frowned at the door. "Mical? What do you want now?" he asked. He wasn't sure what it was, but something about that kid put everything out of place, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. Now he felt that stabbing feeling, that feeling like he wanted to shoot the kid. But he knew Relina would never let him.

Shame.

Mical thumped the door. "Please. Let me speak to you."

Atton wiped his hands on his pants. "What about?"

Silence.

Atton waited incredulously, halfheartedly considering throwing open the door and smashing the kid's head into the wall.

Finally, Mical spoke again in exasperation. "Atton."

Atton growled softly in annoyance and opened the door. Mical stood on the other side, as blond and wide-eyed as always. He shifted uneasily; Atton noted without interest that the kid's jacket was gone. "What do you want?"

Mical coughed. "Well," he said. "I know it is not customary of me… I'm usually quite content reading but… it's so hot and there is nothing to do. Do you think you might spar and train with me? Visas won't do it – I asked. Well, I tried to, anyway… she would not come out of her meditation."

"I see," said Atton after a moment, keeping his voice toneless.

Mical shifted uneasily, bowing his head. He swung his arms pointlessly for a moment and looked back up again hopefully.

Atton couldn't bear to see that whipped look on his face. "Fine," he growled. "Let's spar."

Mical grinned broadly and ran up to hug him. He actually _hugged _him.

Atton, stunned and mildly alarmed, froze in place. After a heartbeat or two, he carefully dislodged the boy, who beamed up at him. "What the hell was that?"

Mical grinned at him. "Sorry," he said, though it was obviously insincere. "I'm just so glad to have something else to do."

"Yeah, well, don't do it again," Atton said, brushing himself off and battling back a bizarre tug on his lips.

"I won't," Mical promised, but Atton sensed a lie laced in with that, too.

"Seriously," Atton said, jabbing a finger at his companion. "Don't do it again."

Mical just smiled his disarming smile. He had this sickeningly adorable way of smiling, a toothless, sweet little cock of his head that made even Atton's stomach tie up in knots. Relina often complained of it, the sheer irresistible cuteness, and Mira made a point to never make Mical smile. Atton tried to follow the bounty hunter's advice, but some way or another he always managed to get a rise out of the younger man.

To stop him, Atton gave him a gentle shove out the door. "Quit it, you."

Mical glanced over his shoulder uncertainly. "But –"

"Don't sweat it," Atton replied, reading his mind. "I'm coming. I just gotta get my hands wrapped up –"

Mical's eyes grew wide.

Atton rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I _said _I was going to spar with you, didn't I?"

Mical started for him again, but Atton cried out, staggering back, and caught his hands. "What the hell!" he cried. "Don't _do _that!"

Mical backed up again to an acceptable distance, biting his lip. "I forget," he said awkwardly.

Atton shook his head at him, pushed him out of the room firmly, locked him out (making sure to check the lock), and wrapped up his hands – this was to give him grip. Mical would not be able to escape if the scoundrel decided he needed to get a hold of him. When he was finished, he re-laced his shoes and tightened up his belt. The last thing he needed was for his pants to fall down in the middle of a match. When he was certain he was prepared, he made his way to the cargo hold. He noted without caring much that the Handmaiden's things were scattered over the floor, not without neatness, but still all over the place. Her bed mattresses were rolled up and pressed against the wall; her robes were stacked in several rows against another nearby wall; her personal items were stuffed in a sack and hung off of a nail; her datapads and other such things were lying in shelves made out of loose metal panels; her weapons stood, sharp and imposing, upright and along the wall by her robes. It looked almost like she planned on living there forever. Atton couldn't blame her. It felt as if this entire journey was going to go on forever.

Mical was waiting for him, smiling his little smile. He, too, had wrapped up his hands and stripped off his outer robes, leaving him in some loose-looking pants Atton had never seen and a simple beige shirt. He was wearing no shoes.

"I could crush your toes," Atton commented as he strode into the cargo hold, wiping his hands on his pants so that his fingers would not be slippery with sweat.

Mical shrugged, and his smile turned into a grin. "If you can catch me," he said.

Atton cocked an eyebrow, amused. "A challenge, is it?"

"You are stronger, perhaps," Mical said; Atton realized that they had begun circling. It felt good to get the blood pumping again. He picked up a rhythm, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Mical matched him effortlessly – their match hadn't yet begun. "You probably are stronger," he continued, "and you have the advantage of being taller. But I'm younger, and quicker, both of mind and body."

"Oh, yeah?" Atton replied, almost surprised. "Younger? Sure. Smarter?" He lashed out, quick and smooth, and Mical dodged. "Nah."

Mical shook his head, smirking wordlessly. "Put your fists where your mouth is," he said after a moment.

Atton struck out again, swift as a snake, but Mical stepped aside with ease. Bouncing back on his toes, Atton retreated out of immediate kicking distance. Mical grinned broadly at him.

"Come now, I know you can do better, Atton," he said calmly.

"I'd never expect _you_ to be egging anyone on in a fight," Atton replied smoothly.

"Then you have a lot to learn about me."

Atton lunged out, knocking aside Mical's feet and making him stagger. As he backed up again, he shrugged, smiling smugly. "Yeah, maybe I do."

Mical hissed, calling a small time out. He had stumbled over one of the Handmaiden's misplaced daggers – the little blade had cut a long, shallow half-moon over the heel of his foot.

"Told you," Atton said. "I _said _you should wear shoes."

Mical pulled a face at him, pressing his fingertips to the wound and knitting it with a tiny push with the Force. It sealed without scarring, and he wiped away the blood left behind. He tossed the dagger on the floor aside and stood again. "Sorry about that," he said.

Atton shrugged. "Doesn't matter." He paused, looking Mical up and down. "Arms up. We ain't done."

It started out light, with lots of circling, feinting, and dodging, but, once they were warmed up, they started to actually spar, backing each other to the other side of the room, striking with enough force to make hands sting. Atton hadn't sparred well in a long time; he enjoyed the pleasant burning in his muscles and his lungs. His sweat cooled him despite the heat of Dxun. Mical, too, seemed to be satisfied, counterattacking every move Atton made. And even when the exercise began to burn with more strain than it should, they kept at it. In fact, they might have sped up, switching into swifter, more determined footwork, using more hands than feet, blocking and pushing. Atton's foot found its way between Mical's legs; he kicked them aside, trying to knock his opponent down. Mical spun around, skipping over his feet and delivering a hard kick into Atton's arm.

Staggering, Atton jumped back. He called a time-out, pressing a hand to his ribs and gasping for breath. He grinned his lopsided grin, wiping a thin layer of sweat from his brow. "Good practice," he gasped, noticing without much feeling that Mical's shirt was plastered to his skin.

The younger man sank to his knees, a feeble chuckle resounding in his throat. Still, despite his exhaustion, and his obvious dehydration, he gasped out, "Still… not… done."

Atton laughed, shaking his head. "We'll call a draw," he said.

"No," Mical said, looking up now with flashing eyes. His face was flushed from exertion, but he was smiling and his eyes were bright. "We'll do this." His hair looked almost straw-like, damp and hanging limp and stringy around his face.

Atton nodded. "Get something to drink first," he said, clearing his throat and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "You probably lost five pounds in sweat. Look at your shirt."

Mical didn't look, but he laughed. He stumbled to his feet, pausing for a moment, and then vanished, coming back with a water flask. He downed most of it in three gulps, then tossed it to Atton, who tipped it back and finished it off. "Ready?" he asked when Atton was finished.

Atton nodded, licking his lips.

Mical sank back into a defensive stance. Atton mimicked him, watching carefully. Slowly, cautiously, they began to circle, and soon found their rhythm again. But it wasn't long before Mical suddenly burst forward, head first, and got his arms firmly around Atton's waist. Down they went, grappling. The ground was hard and cold; the metal grated against Atton's skin. He pushed Mical away, crying out, but found himself straddled. Recalling his past training, Atton thrust his lower torso upwards and turned sideways. He had to wriggle fiercely, but, finally, he pulled himself out, even as Mical tried to grab his wrists and pull him back. Still on the ground, he pivoted around, and drove his heel right into the younger man's temple. Mical let go, falling sideways, and Atton jumped to his feet.

"Good trick, not good enough," Atton hissed, smirking.

Mical sat up, rubbing his temple but grinning. "Younger, smarter," he replied.

The pain came to him sharply then. Atton gasped, pressing a hand to his stomach and doubling over. "You _bastard_," he spat, letting the world flicker in and out of focus.

"Old Echani move, you know the one," Mical replied, taking his time to get unsteadily to his feet. "Delayed effects. Figured you'd get the point."

Atton only swore, moaning softly in his throat. He sneered at Mical, who smiled sweetly back. Atton spat on the floor, closing his eyes with false drama. "I can't breathe, oh, why, oh, why?" And he fell to the ground, laying still.

Mical rolled his eyes. "_Atton_," he said. "Have some dignity."

Atton didn't move.

Mical frowned. "It's really not amusing," he said. "Get back up, unless you forfeit."

Atton remained motionless.

Mical's voice rose an octave. "Atton. Come on."

Again, Atton did not reply.

Finally, Mical began to panic. "Atton?" He came over, kneeling beside his friend. "Atton? Hey. Atton?" When he still got no response, his eyes grew wide and he shook Atton fiercely. "Atton?"

Atton struggled not to smile, but Mical sensed it in him.

"Oh, I hate you," he growled, pushing his friend. Atton caught his wrist and pulled him up and over. Mical hit the ground with a thud; the air whooshed from his lungs in an audible gasp.

"Bastard," he managed to squeak.

"Such language," Atton hissed, pinning him down. He pressed both hands to Mical's shoulders, grinning down at him and clucking his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

Mical narrowed his eyes to slits, twisting his lips into a frown. "You scared me," he said shortly. "It is not funny."

"Is so," said Atton, his smile becoming broader.

They had both cooled down considerably. Atton was no longer sweating or gasping for breath, and neither was Mical. They stared at each other for a while before Mical said, "Fine. Let's get back to sparring, then."

And they did spar. After every time-out they came back with renewed vigor, moving smoothly but with deadly accuracy, striking and dancing until Atton's vision was blurred with sweat and fatigue, yet still he kept going. They worked until their footwork was sloppy and their arms were heavy. They worked until breath came in tiny, sputtering gasps. Atton called a time-out. Mical bent over a little, resting his hands on his knees and heaving for air. They were both sweating profusely again, though this time worse than ever before, and Atton's muscles cried with pain. He closed his eyes a moment, and when he opened them he saw Mical charging at him.

Surprised, he could only reach out and grasp the younger man's wrist. Mical's momentum sent him stumbling forward; Atton stepped out of the way, swinging the Disciple with him, and heaved him upright. Mical gazed up at him, shocked.

Atton tightened his grip a moment, then relaxed it, but did not let go. Mical's hand writhed weakly in a pathetic attempt to escape.

"What the hell was that?" Atton barked.

Mical winced. "You're hurting me."

Atton shook his arm for emphasis. "What was that?" he repeated, more loudly this time.

Mical frowned. "You put your guard down," he said. "You left me an opening."

Atton cocked an eyebrow. "I called time-out."

"You did?" Mical's eyes grew wide.

"_Yes_."

"Oh. Sorry… I hadn't noticed." Mical tried to smile, but he was too embarrassed. So instead he only winced again and looked away.

Atton's sweat was chilling him again, despite the heat of summer. "Don't do it again," he said softly.

Mical looked back up at him. "I won't," he promised.

"You keep doing things that I just don't agree with today, don't you?" Atton said, backing Mical against the wall. Mical obeyed, though his eyes were fixed on Atton's with a weary contemplation. The Disciple moved his hand so that he was grasping Atton's wrist. Now firmly locked with each other, Atton realized he didn't like where this was going.

"Sorry. I forget," Mical said.

This all sounded very familiar. Where? Atton floundered for a moment, then remembered. The cockpit, just before sparring. Mical had hugged him.

A maniac giggle rose in his throat. Mical gasped as Atton shoved him hard against the wall, pressing the hand that was not intertwined with the Disciple's against the wall by his head. Mical's eyes darted over Atton's face, then his hands, then the wall, then back to Atton. "What are you doing?" he asked weakly.

"You're just a liar," Atton told him, his voice slurred slightly. He shook his head, grinning at his own feet. "Just a liar."

Mical squirmed uncertainly. "Atton, you're _hurting _me," he said, trying to pry his hand out Atton's grip.

"You don't love the exile," Atton said abruptly.

Mical's gaze immediately snapped to Atton's face. "What?" he breathed, stunned.

Atton said nothing. Instead, he just burned Mical with his gaze.

Mical drew in a sharp breath. "Atton!" he cried. "Let go!"

Atton noticed without caring much that Mical's wrist was bleeding. _Did I do that_? he wondered drunkenly. Mical's breath was ragged in his ears, drowning out all other nose. The kid was defenseless against Atton's size and strength. Faster, stronger. And that's all that matters in battle. Every battle. Faster, stronger. Always.

Mical's pleads faltered and finally he fell silent, terrified. He gave another feeble lurch, but Atton's body more or less formed a cage.

"You never answered my question."

Mical let out a faint groan. The flesh on his hand had turned an awkward white, stained red by his blood.

Atton let go, but only a little. Mical cried out in pain, but stifled himself by biting his own tongue. Atton, almost tenderly, considered the wounds he had caused, then shrugged without caring much. Mical shot him a sideways glance, eyes shining.

"You never answered my question," Atton repeated. "You don't love the exile."

Mical shuddered. "You… what is the matter with you?"

"Answer me!"

"Yes!" Mical shouted back.

"'_Yes_' what?"

"I admire her," Mical replied, forcing the words. He had begun knitting the deep cuts in his wrist with the Force, his eyes never leaving Atton's face, his body unmoving. "I cannot love her."

Atton snarled. "And why not?"

"You don't," Mical replied. "You don't either, do you? You try."

"You don't believe that," Atton whispered.

"I've seen you try," Mical continued, shifting a little. He tried to pull back, but he was already firmly pressed against the wall. "But you can't. You just can't work that way. You might have been able to before, but isolation and circumstances have changed you."

"What are you implying?"

Mical only smiled. He smiled that calm, good-tempered little smile, but there was no humor behind it. Only wry revelation, as if he had tasted something far too sour. His blue eyes were icy and empty; the bright light behind them had snuffed out like a candle.

"What about you, then?" Atton asked with false bravado, in a throwaway tone that he lost halfway through. His hand felt glued to the wall beside Mical's shoulder. His other hand was wrapped tightly around Mical's wrist, still, though he no longer used his nails.

Mical was motionless, expressionless. He met Atton's gaze for the longest time, saying nothing, and then, finally, he murmured, "I cannot love her."

A heartbeat passed. Then two.

And Atton, who had never before considered such ludicrousness, kissed him, and kissed him hard.

A gentle, pleasurable shock rode up his spine; Mical could only react weakly, too surprised to do much more than breathe. It was an alien feeling, a bizarre feeling that Atton had never experienced before, and, he was sure, he would never feel after.

Perhaps it lasted a moment, a second upon a half-second, before Visas appeared in the doorway. Without a moment's hesitation, she rushed up and gripped Atton's arm, hauling him back with a shout of reprimand and horror. Atton stumbled backwards, catching a glimpse of Mical's face before he hit the ground; his features were red with something other than the exertion of sparring.

_Hello again, ground_, Atton thought dumbly as he hit the unyielding metal floor.

Mical curled up on himself, pressing his hands firmly to his mouth. Visas looked at them both, her lips working into a disgusted grimace. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.

But she could think of nothing to say. Her face flushed red and she just slowly shook her head. Shuddering, she stepped away, and waved a hand without a word. Atton smiled at her weakly. Making a faint noise of distress in the back of her throat, she stepped over him and swiftly strode out, making sure to firmly close the door behind her.

Mical looked up again, deep crimson. He and Atton gazed at each other for a while awkwardly, and finally he said in a high-pitched voice, "Not a word."

"Tell that to the Miraluka," Atton grumbled, stumbling to his feet. He kicked the Handmaiden's dagger aside, having almost stepped on it. "Stupid thing…" he muttered. He glanced up to see Mical guiltily licking his lips. He frowned. "You regret it."

"No," Mical said, perhaps a little too quickly.

Atton cocked an eyebrow.

"W-Well…" Mical paused, shifting uncomfortably. "I mean… I… I liked it… but… was… was that so right? It… It _felt _right… I _thought_ it was right… but…"

"… but obviously Visas didn't," Atton finished for him. He sighed as Mical nodded.

They gazed at each other helplessly. It wasn't fair, no. But they had to respect the others, even if it meant tearing themselves apart. The idea made Atton nauseas… after all he had been through, scraping for whatever piece of life he could find, didn't he deserve happiness? Just once? Mical, however, seemed much more resigned, sinking to the ground hopelessly. The emptiness in his eyes told Atton what he was thinking – it's all over, just like that. It might have lasted if Visas hadn't burst in and made a big scene… but if they didn't repent immediately she would tell Relina… and Relina would either reject them and never see them the same way again, or leave them on Dxun to die. Maybe she would be merciful and drop them off someplace like Nar Shaddaa or Dantooine or even Onderon, but the others would not be so kindhearted.

"Well, screw them all!" Atton shouted suddenly, startling Mical.

"What?"

"Screw everyone else," Atton repeated, folding his arms. "Who gives a damn? Not me."

"Atton, you can't say that…"

"Why can't I?" he demanded. "Hell, why not?"

"Atton…"

"No. If Visas tells, Visas tells, no matter what we do. If they're going to drop us like that just because we… aren't like them… who needs them? Not us! Let them pilot their own gods-damn ship!"

"You need a day to calm down," Mical offered uncertainly. "I think we need some time to figure out what's going on here."

"We don't have time," Atton replied firmly. "Be spontaneous for once."

Mical said nothing. He averted his eyes.

"We can be careful," Atton said, now speaking softly. He knelt beside Mical, who scooted away and shook his head. But Atton nodded determinedly. "We can. As long as we –"

"They'll know," Mical said. "They'll figure it out. They're not stupid…"

"No, they're not. But neither are we."

Mical's eyes were blank. "What are you saying?"

"All it takes is timing, planning. Locked doors, instead of open ones." Atton laughed at himself, but Mical was still unconvinced.

"Atton, we just can't risk it…"

"Why not? What have we got to lose?" Atton said, now frustrated. He wished Mical would at least show his emotions in his expression, but the kid was as hard as the wall he was leaning against.

"We have our mission. The Sith need to be stopped. That is more important than…"

"We can do both," Atton exclaimed, cutting him off. "Isn't that what I've been saying? As long as we're careful –"

"Atton, you _can't _be careful with something like that."

"What's the matter with you? I thought you were the faithful one," Atton said, a little stunned. "I thought you were the one who always said, 'we can do this' and 'never give up.' What happened to that?"

"_You _happened," Mical replied, perhaps a little more sharply than he had intended.

"So you're just nervous." Atton's eyes grew wide. "Is that it? You've never come out before, have you?"

Mical stared for a moment. "What? I… you… _no_!"

"That explains it, then." Atton was a little relieved now. "You just don't... you aren't sure. But you said it felt right, didn't you?"

"Atton, the dark side feels right half of the time, and it's not," Mical reminded him.

"What we're doing is hardly the dark side."

"We're not _doing_ anything!"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Atton said, waving a hand at the mortified expression on Mical's face. "You said it felt right."

"I… well, yes, but…"

"See? There you go."

"Atton."

"Please. I haven't gone this far to lose everything," Atton said then, his voice going quiet and husky. "I haven't lived this long to see this turn away from me again."

"Gods. You're serious, aren't you?"

"Are you surprised?"

Finally, a small smile tugged at Mical's lips. "A little," he admitted quietly.

"Then what do you say?"

The silence stretched on forever, several minutes, at least. Faintly in the background, the loading ramp hissed open and the rest of the crew clambered inside, talking and laughing loudly. Atton trembled with a sense of urgency, and finally Mical murmured, "Very well."

Atton grinned. "Really?"

Mical nodded.

The older man sighed with a deep relief, sitting back on his haunches. After his head stopped reeling, he nodded again, struggling not to laugh with joy. "Thank you," he said, though it felt rather inadequate. "Now." He got to his feet, holding out a hand for Mical to grab. "Let's spar."

------

**Author's Notes: **I… don't know what to say about this. The idea popped into my head one day, and I knew everyone would hate me for it, so I just threw it away. But it kept coming back and so I decided to hell with it and made it. Yes, I have an obsession with gay fiction. I always have.

**DO NOT** flame me for this. I wrote this for my own entertainment and if you don't like it, either tell me why (reasonably – no 'because they're gay' crap) or don't say anything at all. Don't expect any more like these, or at least not _many_ more. This was kind of a have-to-get-it-out thing. Thanks, loves.


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